


wishbone

by lipsstainedbloodred



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining, i wrote this for myself but youre welcome to read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsstainedbloodred/pseuds/lipsstainedbloodred
Summary: Crowley should be used to this. After all, he’s not used to getting what he wants.(or, the scene where Aziraphale stays the night in Crowley's flat.)





	wishbone

**Author's Note:**

> “If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand…This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death.” - Richard Siken, “Wishbone”

_ You could stay at my place, if you like. _

Not just an offering, but a plea.  _ If you like _ said like  _ anywhere you want to go _ said like  _ we could go off together  _ said like  _ angel I’m sorry  _ said like “ _ please _ ” in its most desperate form. And he sticks his arm out, holds his breath, hails the bus. They sit in quiet, silence like a vacuum or a black hole. Like the space between the stars. Crowley offers his hand. Aziraphale takes it.

There is a place inside Crowley that was made for Love. It was put there when he was created, and ripped away when he Fell. The edges of it itch, like a scar, like a burn. Like a hole that wants something to fill it. Crowley’s never been able to fill it. A yawning, gaping space. A hungry maw, jaws unhinged and lunging, snapping at stale air. Always hungry, always empty. 

There is want and there is love. 

Crowley does not know the difference between the two.

To him, they’ve always been the same. 

When they step off the bus Aziraphale takes his hand away. Crowley stuffs his useless hand in his pocket to keep from grasping at him. He opens the door to his flat and lets Aziraphale inside. Pretends not to stare, pretends he’s not in awe at how well Aziraphale fits with all his other stolen artifacts. “Bedroom’s down the hall.” He’s going for nonchalant. He misses the mark by a mile or two. 

Aziraphale smiles, amused. He also looks like he’s trying very hard not to fidget. “I don’t believe I’m tired yet, my dear.” 

Crowley is. He’s dead on his feet, leaning against the wall for support but in a way that makes him look cool. He huffs an impatient breath.

“And we still need to figure out this prophecy, besides.” Aziraphale holds the torn scrap between them.

Crowley wants to snatch it out of his hands. Burn it. Swallow it. Damn it to the very depths of Hell. He arches an eyebrow above his glasses. He says words without saying anything, sometimes. Aziraphale always knows what he means.

Aziraphale scowls and tucks the paper away.

“It’ll be easier to think in the morning.”

“We may not have time,” Aziraphale hisses, “in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Soon, angel, they’ll come for us. But not tonight. Now?”

“Lazy,” Aziraphale accuses.

“I stopped time,” Crowley takes his glasses off to level Aziraphale with the full weight of his stare, “for you. I stopped all of time. I’m  _ tired _ , Aziraphale, I want to sleep.”

To his credit Aziraphale does look a bit guilty. “Well sleep,” he says, “I’m not stopping you.”

Crowley wants to fight, but there’s never been a single fight against Aziraphale that he’s won. Instead he cedes and goes to bed. Lays there staring and the ceiling and not sleeping because Aziraphale is here, close as he’s ever been, but Crowley still wants him closer. He kicks his sheets and punches a pillow. Hisses dark curses into the mattress and then into the air. Grabs at his own hair and pulls.

He has Aziraphale here where he wants him, but not  _ here  _ where he wants him.

Crowley should be used to this. After all, he’s not used to getting what he wants.

The knock comes some time between three and four in the morning and Crowley doesn’t even pretend he’s been sleeping, just opens the door. Aziraphale barges in like he belongs, brushing past Crowley to rattle on about Holy Water and Hellfire, about vessels and souls and body switches. Crowley’s not even sure he’s following properly when he says, “Okay.”

Aziraphale freezes. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay, alright.”

“Crowley were you even listening?”

“Yes,” Crowley narrows his eyes, “I was.”

“And you’re okay with,” Aziraphale gestures between the two of him. His face is a little red.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“I just- I assumed I’d need to do a lot more convincing than that.”

_ I would do anything that you asked of me.  _ Crowley shrugs and looks away.

“Right, yes, well-” Aziraphale tugs at his jacket a little, “Very good. I’ll let you sleep then.”

“Wait.”

Aziraphale stops halfway out the door, turns to look at Crowley nervously.

“Stay?” Crowley asks. Said like  _ if you like  _ said like  _ we can run away together  _ said like  _ little demonic miracle of my own  _ said like “ _ I love you _ ” the only way he knows how. 

Aziraphale’s face goes stony, stern. This is his angelic face, the one he used when he commanded armies. “I do believe that would be a step over the line, don’t you my dear?”

“You love me,” Crowley says, “I know you do. Stay. Just until morning. Just to sleep.” 

“Oh Crowley, what do you think you know about love?” Said softly, said pityingly. Said like the rich man to the beggar who refuses to give a dime despite his pockets filled with cash.

_ I know it hurts. I know it’s painful, unending, torturous, divine. I know you feel it for me but won’t let yourself. I know I feel it for you despite everything. _ Crowley swallows around something stuck in his throat.

Aziraphale waits for an answer. He’s not getting one. The silence yawns. Something inside Crowley is furiously hungry. He presses a hand to his ribs like that will dull the ache. Too fast, he’s moving too fast, but Crowley doesn’t know the roads or the stop signs. Can’t make out the ditches or the curves. Can’t help that occasionally he plummets off the side and he falls and he falls and he falls.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale says, “isn’t that enough?”

No. It’s not.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, “yeah of course.” Always slowing down. Always stopping. Always right on the edge of what could be. He’s been doing this for six thousand years. He wonders how long he’ll have to continue. He doesn’t know if he can deal with the ache forever. He’ll try. He will.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says and he sounds half as pained as Crowley feels, “you’re my best friend.”

He’ll take it, if that’s what he’s allowed to have. He will take it with greedy hands and shove that inside himself until he makes himself full with it. He won’t be full. He’s never been full. “I know, angel.”

Aziraphale shuts the door with a soft click and Crowley goes back to bed to stare listlessly at the ceiling until dawn. 

In the morning Crowley will pretend it never happened, like he always does, and Aziraphale will play along, like he always does. Crowley will make tea and tease Aziraphale about the amount of sugars he takes. Aziraphale will politely ignore the dark circles under Crowley’s eyes and the tension in his hands. They will talk again about the prophecy and Crowley will offer his hand and Aziraphale will take it. 

But for now Crowley lays in his bed, and he does not weep. For now he thinks of what has been, and what will be, and the things he is unwilling to lose. And he wants. And he wishes.


End file.
